


Trouble of A Different Sort

by orphan_account



Category: The Mousetrap
Genre: Also go read the other one (I think the authors name is Autumn?), M/M, Masturbation, can we refer to masturbation as Wrenning It from now on, im gonna post it now and publicize my sins yikes, it's really good, on this same subject, solo round, this has been on my phone for 2 weeks RIP, uses the phrase Oh Dear in conjunction with jackin it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-01
Updated: 2016-03-01
Packaged: 2018-05-24 03:08:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6139276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's going to prison for this, or Hell. Whichever, as long as he gets to come before he goes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trouble of A Different Sort

Christopher was not expecting to see a man whiz by on skis. Skiing is rather ill-advised in a blizzard. That poor man is out and all over snow. His hat is absurd, really, with more ear flaps than man was ever meant to wear. 

More importantly, he's terribly handsome. Men go skiing all the time, but very rarely are they devastatingly attractive, even in terrible hats. Christopher almost definitely doesn't press his nose to the library window for a better look. The man has forgone the road entirely to ski around the back of the house, for some reason, but he seems to be heading generally for the entrance. 

Oh, dear. A handsome policeman. Christopher really was not expecting this. When he takes the terrible hat off Chris can see he had windblown brown hair and a knifeblade smile. It's hard to even focus on what he's saying when all those words are coming out of a mouth like that. This could be a problem-- no, strike that. It's a problem already and could grow to be an embarrassing one. 

He excuses himself by way of a fit of laughter-- the joke hadn't been funny, but what can one do?-- and practically sprints the fifteen steps to his room. Chris is in trouble for sure. 

He feels halfway between vague and intense, wonders if it would be terribly improper to proposition a policeman in a strange part of England.

Best not to. The Sergeant would say no, would laugh in his face or punch him in the face, and then where would they be? Or _worse_ , what if the Sergeant said yes? Everyone would know and perhaps the both of them would be kicked straight out of the inn. Ralston wouldn't want Chris under his roof. 

Still, if the Sergeant said yes, what on earth would they do? Sneak into this room, lay on this very bed. The Seargeant pulling him down, kissing him, pulling his hair--

Chris tugs on his hair experimentally. It makes him squirm in the best way, so he does it again. He loosens his tie, feeling suddenly trapped by it. May as well solve the problem now, he thinks, and sighs in a resigned way to opening his pants. Honestly, the man's hat has four earflaps. Chris berates himself for his low standards for a moment but then his fingers make contact with his cock and he practically can't think at all, let alone criticisms of his taste. 

Chris balls one hand in his own hair, the other working in his trousers. The Sergeant kneeling behind him, a grip on his hair to pull his head back, warning him to be quiet. 

Chris' hips buck up involuntarily. His head falls back. Christ, he's going to prison for this, falling apart over an officer of the law. Prison or Hell. He decides he doesn't care. Whichever, just so long as he gets to come before he goes. His hand can't seem to move fast enough and he knows he's making noises but he can't stop, has never been able to shut up when he's flustered, and in the back of his head he's praying nobody can hear him. He's breathing hard. They'd know what was going on in here even if he were just breathing. He should know how to keep quiet by now, he's a grown man, but he doesn't even think he's going to last much longer, not thinking about the Sergeant above him now, pressing him into the quilt and that knifeblade smile so close-- so close--

A scream from downstairs practically rattles the floor. He jerks his hand out of his pants and hurriedly wipes it on a handkerchief. This sounds like trouble of a different sort. 

**Author's Note:**

> Here's this mess that I wrote on my phone instead of getting ready for tech week. Yikes! 
> 
> Merlinthemarvelous has a great fic that goes at this topic slightly differently. I'd suggest reading that one too. 
> 
> As was said in my heyday, concrit always appreciated. I also accept suspicious looks in passing should you ever see someone who you think is me.


End file.
